


The Empty Real Estate of Her Thigh

by Emby_M



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Amadeo's Dead, Best Friends and Closest Confidantes, Gen, Mindy grieves Paolo helps, Mindy's PoV so the language is very blunt, Specific references to gender transition (both surgery and hormones), Trans Female Character, implied Kirin/Paolo, tattooing as signs of love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 23:40:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10685286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emby_M/pseuds/Emby_M
Summary: “You liked him,” Paolo says, tepidly.She pulls her legs into her chest, resting the heels of her boots on the edge of the sofa.“Dunno,” she lies. She knows.-Mindy realizes too late that she loved Amadeo.





	The Empty Real Estate of Her Thigh

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a sucker for childhood friends Mindy and Paolo who can tell each other anything.  
> Also a sucker for Amadeo & Mindy.   
> Just want to mention that 1. I'm not a trans woman so maybe I'm getting parts of the transition stuff wrong -- let me know if I am and how to fix it and 2. her loving Amadeo a lot doesn't, obviously, negate her polyness. Of course it doesn't!  
> Please kudos and comment if you're so inclined.

“Anyone new,” Paolo says, adjusting the ring on his finger — from Kirin, the pencilwhip fuckwad — and stretching his shoulders out.

“Nah. Isn’t feeling as nice as it used to.”

Paolo looks over at her with cool eyes, and a cocked eyebrow.

“Something up?”

Damn Paolo. Knowing her like this.

Well he _did_ , was the thing. After twenty years together, there had to be something there.

She lies.

“Nah, just ain’t feelin’ it.”

“Bullshit,” Paolo says, his eyebrow cocking higher.

Mindy clicks her tongue, like his concern was _annoying;_ truth be told, having someone call her on her pretend emotions was - nice. Someone who trusted her. Someone she trusted. The circle on her hip was proof of that, and all the ink in his skin was proof too.

“Guess I’m just. Kinda bummed about Amadeo.”

Paolo nods, cocks his head, and comes to sit on his couch, gesturing for her to sit too.

“S’reasonable. He was a nice guy. Good designer.”

And she could leave it at that - she really could.

But fuck, Paolo had seen her scars right after her surgery — had seen her titties and her pussy, fresh made; fuck, had seen her dick while she still had one; helped her with the first few doses from Addermire and that sweet little doctor. He’d been her first kiss and her greatest confidante and-

She could leave it at that, but she doesn’t.

“He was a good man.”

Paolo turns his head slightly.

“You don’t call many that.”

“Cuz-“ and here she grimaces because _complimenting people_ was not what Mindy Blanchard was known for, “I didn’t think most were.”

Paolo, he nods, slightly. And then he gets up.

“Wh- fucker?” She says, stunned at his sudden departure.

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’m getting you coffee.”

She sighs, and leans back into his couch.

She can hear Paolo heating up water - in a little kettle Kirin had made for him. And the cone filter. She wonders if he’ll give her a stupid mug — Something gaudy and cheap and chipped, cuz Paolo could be an odd sentimentalist sometimes, and got weirdly attached to things like that.

“You’re stupid,” she says.

“Yeah?” He says.

“Yeah. You have women spreading their legs for you. Men would drop trou if you just asked. And you’re with The Grand Pain-in-the-ass.”

“Yeah.”

She wants him to explain, or get mad, or defend himself, anything but just that tepid “yeah” — because if he’s resigned, the she’ll have to be.

If being in love was that simple, warranted only feeling, no logic — then she was already screwed. Already with a dead love.

“Here.” He says, handing her the cup. It is gaudy and awful and cheap, like she thought, but it’s _precious_ in a way she’d never viewed it.

“You liked him,” Paolo says, tepidly.

She pulls her legs into her chest, resting the heels of her boots on the edge of the sofa.

“Dunno,” she lies. She knows.

Paolo sips his coffee mildly. There is silence for several minutes — Paolo’s just… sitting there. Sipping his coffee. Like he was just relaxing in his home, thinking boring thoughts.

Mindy can’t take it. She yells, “Okay, okay! I liked him, yeah, but I got him killed! Fine!”

Paolo’s face doesn’t change. “Don’t spill.”

“I’ll spill whatever the fuck I want, Paolo!”

But something wells in her, something thick and deep that she forgot to think about — or maybe never intended to think about, and her tears come hot and thick and disgusting.

Paolo plucks the cup from her hands and sets it on the nearby table, closing the gap over to her.

He pulls her into a strong, one-armed hug.

She bites him, but he stays, rubbing her back gently. And the tears still come burning and wet and revolting, the way they make her skin tight and her nose run and she hates it.

But-

Having that masked stranger fetch his body was.

Awful.

Bet it confused the fuck out of the guy to retrieve the body and then have her bury it but- something about Amadeo being buried or burned up in some Overseer’s yard was - sickening. And part of her had really hoped that Amadeo was strong, could withstand the Overseers, but -

but he couldn’t and he was dead.

Part of her wishes she hadn’t asked him to start on the empty space on her outer thigh, but he was - dedicated, and detailed, and focused on her skin in- in a way that people hadn’t been in a while. She was her own cult of personality, collecting admirers from everywhere because of her brutality, her charm — and most of them were - marginally - okay with her history. “I used to have a dick,” she’d say, bluntlike to get them to understand, and they’d need reassuring that she didn’t now, and that she was still Mindy Blanchard (her old name lost to the wind but still burning as other people’s descriptors). Amadeo rolled out his shoulder when she told him, asked if her skin was sensitive — if she was still comfortable on her side, if she liked the way his teeth felt against her nape, if she liked the gentle way he tongued at her, like he was exploring something new but not strange, not an oddity.

And when he brushed the empty real estate of her thigh she asked him to mark something for her, and he retrieved something from a shrine, and it was alluring and easy and the ink took like it was always meant to be part of her skin.

He didn’t finish. He didn’t get to. So the lines, the bare lines of those marks - heretical and strange but beautiful and strong - remained, now forever unfinished. Just under the circle Paolo had circumscribed on her hip with a needle and scavenged letter ink.

And it was _awful_ in a way she couldn’t put words to, just tears.

“Yeah,” Paolo says, like he gets it, and maybe he does.

“Shut up,” she says, no bite behind it.

“Yeah,” he says, quieter, “You always were a crybaby.”

Mindy punches him, weakly, and he grunts but still holds on, resolutely.

“I miss him,” she says.

 


End file.
